She taught history at UC Santa Barbara. Her husband was a lefty lawyer in Jew York. He rotated west two weeks per month. They quit fucking four million years ago. They stayed together for obscure Commie reasons and for the sake of their two-year-old daughter. Karen disdained violence. Karen built bombs, blew up monuments and always made sure that no human beings or watchdogs got hurt. She operated under the direct sanction of Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

Quid pro quo. He let her destroy jingoist statuary. He pulled her activist chums out of the shit with some regularity. She ratted Reds who exceeded her low threshold for physical hurt. She was pregnant again now, at age forty-three. It was some kind of jack-off-in-a-jar/test-tube job that required hubby’s assistance. Karen Sifakis-Jesus Fucking Christ.

They met at Yale. It was fall ‘48. He was a rookie Fed. She was a Smith College/Yale trial coed. They had a two-hour pub chat. They killed a bottle of scotch and a pack of cigarettes and made everlasting impressions. He dug her looks. She dug his looks. He didn’t know it was mutual until three years back.

L.A., August ‘65. The Watts riot-crazy nigger shit ascendant. Mr. Hoover was aghast. He ordered file checks on all the college profs who signed pro-spook petitions. Dwight did a full week of file work. There’s Karen’s name. There’s Karen’s picture. Fuck-it’s that tall, red-haired Greek girl from Yale.

He did some research. He learned that Karen wrote her doctoral thesis on the Indiana Klan. Prominently mentioned: Walter “Daddy” Holly himself.

He conducted some interviews. He learned that some Indiana Klan klowns lynched Karen’s Greek immigrant granddad. It was 1922. Daddy Holly ran a klavern two counties south of the lynch site.

He did more research. He pulled Karen’s FBI file from the Central Records. He got her protest-march arrest records expunged in nine cities. He climbed a big limb to get her granddad some late justice.

One of the lynch guys had spawned a neo-Nazi grandson. Dwight tracked him to a county jail in Ohio. The guy was an evil sack of shit. Dwight got him moved to an all-nigger tier. The spooks gave him a come-to-God whipping.

He flew out to L.A. and knocked on Karen’s door. She recognized him seventeen years later. He told her what he’d done and that his father was Daddy Holly. She asked him why he did it. He told her that he wanted to give her something that no one else ever could.

She invited him in.

They developed an arrangement.

He’s black-bagged her house. He’s read her journal. She describes her fascist-toady lover tenderly.

She always tells him, “We’re too circumspect to self-immolate.” He always tells her, “We’re too tall and good-looking to lose.” Sometimes he snaps out of nightmares and finds himself coiled in her arms.

The flight got bumpy. The seat-belt warning flashed. Dwight jotted notes on a file card:

“BTA amp; MMLF best bets. Check various police agcy files amp; hate-mail subscriber lists (left-wing, anti-white mailings) for leads on possible plant (Wayne Sr.’s stash/Dr. Fred Hiltz).”

The bumps leveled off. The plane descended. There’s that big wide light. Jesus, L.A. looked good.

The bedroom was hot. The window unit went on the fritz and pushed stale air around. They’d sweated the sheets through to the mattress. Karen called it a “sauna fuck.” Dwight kissed her wet hair, sheened up all the more red.

The husband was back east. He had a name, but Dwight never said it. Dina was out at nursery school. They had three hours.

Karen rolled on her back. She was three months pregnant. She showed a little. Her litheness was filling out into curves.

She stretched. She grabbed the bed rails and arched off her back. Dwight put a hand on her belly and eased her down slow. She rolled into him. He hooked a leg over her and drew her in close.

“Are you sure it’s not mine?”

“Yes. It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”

Dwight smiled. “It’s a girl.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Girls are less trouble. Any male being you create will mean problems for me. I’ll spend the rest of my career redacting his files and busting him out of jail.”

Karen lit a cigarette. “Dina will blow up Mount Rushmore. She’s starting to put out a vibe.”

“Dina will marry a Republican. You know how I know it? She always wants me to show her my badge.”

The window unit buckled. Icy air hit them. Karen shivered and nuzzled into him.

“A colleague of mine needs some help. He’s being assessed for tenure, but he was blacklisted from ‘51 to ‘54. The chairman of the tenure committee hates him, and he’s not above using that as a wedge.”

Dwight laughed. “I thought all college professors were high-minded Commies above shit like that.”

“I am, but they’re not.”

“I’ll misplace his file or do some redactions. Let me know what you need.”

Karen blew smoke rings. They hit the cold air and dispersed. Dwight took the cigarette and put it out.

“Smoking’s bad for pregnant women.”

“One a day, and only when we’re together.”

“I need some help.”

“Tell me.”

“I might be running a Cointelpro on some black-militant groups. I’ll find the plant on my own, but I might need help finding an informant.”

Karen kissed his neck and traced the knife scar on his shoulder.

“Why should I help you with something like that? Give me the rationale and explain how it conforms to our arrangement.”

Dwight put his head up against hers. Their eyes were close. That odd blue all dark-flecked-some goddamn Greek.

“Because they’re out to sell dope and cash in on social protest. Because they’re shitbirds who abuse women. Because they’ll get a lot of very impressionable young black men fired up to do crazy shit that will derail their fucking lives forever, and the overall social benefit that they’ll create from being in business will be down around zero.”

Karen kissed him. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

“I’m right on this one. You could help me out and do some good here.”

Karen chewed her lips. Dwight kissed her and stopped it. They went telepathic. Karen said their credo.

“I will not further comment on the usurious nature of our relationship, lest I indict myself as a fascist collaborator and run from you screaming.”

On cue, perfect timing, straight off a kiss. More than deadpan, less than droll.

Dwight went into a laugh fit. Karen clamped his mouth. He nipped her palm and made her stop it. She pointed to his clothes. His checkbook had dropped from his suit coat.

“Those anonymous checks. You’ve never told me why.”

“I’ve told you I send them.”

“You tell me just so much, and no more.”

“You’re the same way.”

“It’s how we stay safe together.”

Their faces were close. Karen leaned in and got their eyes closer.

“You’ve done something terribly wrong. I won’t ask, but you should know that I know.”

Dwight shut his eyes. Karen kissed them. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”